"Arrival"

Arrival

When I saw your father then. Before you birthed.
I saw a boulder, broad chest, wavering
Awkward as his skin, stretched and cracked
Losing his old self.

I saw his words become weighed.
His life mission sharpening like a pencil.
I saw him testing father. He would roll it
Around like hot liquid and squint under its burn.

As you stretched in your mothers tummy,
So he stretched. He shed parts to prepare.
I saw a man naked and unsure, rolling daddy
Around his tongue, preparing like the raw trumpet
Stretching abstract notes creating jazz.
I saw you make him a man.

Malika Booker

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Malika Booker was in Malaysia last year both to perform and to run workshops, and I had the pleasure of interviewing her for StarMag, which is where this poem appeared.

This is a very strong and moving poem about fatherhood, addressed by the mother to her child.

The main players in the act of childbirth are, of course, mother and child. But here in a sense the father too is being given birth to. It’s a highly effective shift of focus, especially as fathers often feel sidelined during the act of birth.

Look at how the new father’s initial awkwardness and hesitancy is highlighted, not just by the words, but also by the punctuation. The poem is choppy at first, the full stops occurring not at the end of grammatical sentences but between clauses in the first line. And how, in comparison, the long run-on sentence in the third stanza (with no commas in places where we would normally expect them) shows his growing confidence, his joy.

The imagery of the poem is extremely effective. The image of the skin stretching and cracking reminds the reader of a snake, shedding its skin, just as the man is sloughing off his old skin to find a new self within. I like too the way the image of the word ”father” being like hot liquid, a new taste sensation on the tongue, something that must be tested before it can be assimilated.

The father is described very effectively in the same terms as the baby – stretching, shedding parts (as the umbilical cord is shed, I suppose), naked. The reference to jazz improvisation is apt for there is no manual for fatherhood, and each man must come to it in their own way.
The poem reminded me of an earlier one I posted about learning the true meaning of becoming a father: The Almond Tree by John Stallworthy.

Give Malika’s poem to a new father near you!

(Written by bibliobibuli who is at the moment unable to move her blog over to Blogger 2).

"Sleep-stealer"

Who stole sleep from baby's eyes? I must know.
Clasping her pitcher to her waist mother went to fetch
water from the village near by.

It was noon. The children's playtime was over;
the ducks in the pond were silent.
The shepherd boy lay asleep under the shadow of the
banyan tree.
The crane stood grave and still in the swamp near the
mango grove.
In the meanwhile the sleep-stealer came and, snatching
sleep from the baby's eyes, flew away.
When mother came back she found baby travelling the
room over on all fours.

Who stole sleep from our baby's eyes? I must know.
I must find her and chain her up.
I must look into the dark cave, where , through
boulders and scowling stones, trickles in a tiny stream.

I must search in the drowsy shade of the bakula grove,
where pigeons coo in their corner, and fairies'
anklets tinkle in the stillness of starry nights.

In the evening I will peep into the whispering silence
of the bamboo forest, where fireflies squander their
light, and will ask every creature I meet, "Can
anybody tell me where the Sleep-stealer lives?"

Who stole the sleep from baby's eyes? I must know.
Shouldn't I give her a good lesson if I could only
catch her!

I would raid her nest and see where she hoards
all her stolen sleep.
I would plunder it all, and carry it home.
I would bind her two wings securely, set her on the
bank of the river, and then let her play at
fishing with a reed among the rushes and water lillies.

When the marketing is over in the evening, and the village
children sit in their mothers' laps, then the
night birds will mockingly din her ears with:
"Whose sleep will you steal now?"

— Rabindranath Tagore

I think as Tagore's poems go , this one has a certain robustness in it's form and rhythm and I do think it reflects the unending quests in life.
The line that really stood out to me: "where fireflies squander their light"
To me this was very painful somehow - how meaningless some of our actions can be....
The poem as a whole - loved the descriptiveness - the beauty of the countryside - the detailing - I can visualise the pictures in my head.
What the whole poem itself means - I think I will wait for comments for others and round it up later!